


Tall Cold Grass

by Jacquzy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brothers, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacquzy/pseuds/Jacquzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was wrong. It was disgusting. He was his brother, his dearest baby brother, and he could still remember how he'd first found that small, frightened child, shaking behind the tall, cold grass. Warning for incest. De-anon from the Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tall Cold Grass

**Author's Note:**

> Another piece written for the Hetalia Kink Meme, this time Norway/Iceland. Prompt was: "two brothers have been feeling sexually attracted to one another, but this cause a lot of guilt and disgust to the both of them. One day, they become aware that the other feels the same that they do and decided that they can't just ignore it any longer. They figure that it's okay for them to get off together as long as they don't actuallytouch one another."

Norway arrives home late, when the thick red light of sunset has already swept back over the still, cold water below the big white house he shares with his siblings. The sky is a smoky shade of half-hearted black, and the clouds are yellowed by the full moon hovering low above the lake. It is very quiet. He unlocks the front door; locks it again; and removes his shoes. Sweden and Finland have come to visit, and have brought Sealand with them, though they will leave in the morning. Their shoes are pressed together in the corner, huddled against the skirting board. Daddy shoes, mummy shoes, and baby shoes. The tips kiss.

He turns away, trips over the shoes belonging to Denmark – that stupid lug, could he possibly be any more untidy? – and kicks them out of the way. They tumble across the shiny wood floor; skid the last couple of inches, and come to rest in the doorway to the kitchen.

Dropping his bag, Norway shrugs off his jacket, and slings it over one arm. The house is warm and thick with sleep. He pads silently up the stairs – being careful to hop over that step that always creaks – and leans backwards to turn off the stairwell light when he spies a huge, hunched shadow lurking against the wall. Troll, he thinks, and though walking up the stairs with no light to guide him is dangerous, he does not wish to look at that chilling shape.

They do not harm him; they never have; but the way they hunker down, and stare, and stare – we know what you are, we know you see us, and we – you and our king – we are alone, together – it is this that unnerves him somewhat. He would never tell the others about it, though, and pretends that they are friends, guides...he does not know, even after the many tiring years of his life if they are hostile, and he doesn't suppose he ever will.

The lights upstairs are turned off, too. The first room, the biggest one on his left is Denmark's. He can hear him snoring through the thick, dark door, which is closed, and he moves quickly past it. The second is a guest room, tonight occupied by Sweden and Finland. Their door stands slightly ajar, and through the thin, weak spill of moonlight filtering through a gap in the gauzy curtains, he sees them curled up together beneath the thick duvet they share, Sweden's arm around Finland's shoulders, the latter's head tucked beneath his husband's chin. Finland sighs heavily in his peaceful slumber, and wriggles further into the taller blond's body. Sweden mumbles something in his sleep, and Norway moves steadily on.

Sealand sleeps in the next room, no doubt spread out across the bed made for two, arms and legs akimbo, mouth wide open – and in the room after that one, just before his own, is his dearest brother Iceland, sleeping silently; motionless.

He pauses at the door. It is shut, but he so desperately wants to see his little brother's face.

Before he knows what exactly he is doing, Norway is pressing down lightly on the golden door handle, and stepping onto the thick, cream-coloured carpet softening Iceland's bedroom.

In the bed, halfway down the opposing wall, Iceland sleeps.

Norway moves silently across the shadowed floor, leaving the door just slightly open, partly so the soft glow from the light in the passageway outside will illuminate his brother's face, and partly to dissuade himself from doing things he will later regret. In his bed, Iceland heaves a sigh, a little disturbed, perhaps, and Norway's lips lift a little bit at the corners as he spots his sibling's feet twitching beneath the bedcovers.

He kneels down beside the bedside table, and rests his left hand on the mattress. Slowly, cautiously, he lays his right across Iceland's forehead.

Iceland breathes a quiet sigh. His face is relaxed in sleep. It remains as still and serious as it does when he is awake, of course – that is just one of the things Norway likes about him – but he seems to be at peace, unguarded against others who seek to know him.

"Noregur," mumbles the younger man. Child. Norway supposes that he is a child, really, and for some reason this thought both unsettles and comforts him.

"Shh. Sleep," he whispers, and rises up from his knees, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Iceland's forehead, and then to his lips, before he can catch himself.

Iceland sleeps on, and Norway leaves the room, feeling as though he is stood upon the edge of a very, very unstable cliff.

He lies down in bed shortly afterwards, his door closed and all light barred, but he cannot sleep. Every creak of the big house, every huff and sigh and snore of his family startles him. He feels as though he has committed some terrible wrong, though his cool, rational mind insists that he has not.

He feels tense, and nervous, and – for some unfathomable reason – aroused, and so he does what any, he reasons, any normal person would do in such a situation, and slips his pyjama bottoms down past his hips, and takes himself in his cold, shaking hand. He feels close, tonight, almost immediately, though this is good, because all he really wants to do is sleep – and as the breath-halting rush towards orgasm begins, he casts his mind around for an image to tip him over that sharp edge...

It is with teeth gritted against a desperate, pleasure-consumed moan he finally falls, and as he lies sated, his back cool with his own sweat, and his hands damp, it suddenly comes to him that the face he pictured at that crucial moment was his brother's.

Again. Again.

His blood freezes in his veins, and he finds he can't even move to clean himself up.

Iceland.

He has always loved his brother, of course – loved him passionately – but this? This? He is disgusted with himself. He has done it again; he has besmirched him; his poor, beautiful brother, yet again.

This is not normal.

Norway does not fall asleep for a long time that night; but instead lies awake, shivering against the cold, thinking of Iceland and his large, calm violet eyes. Thus, he at long last stumbles into an uneasy slumber.

Dawn breaks through a slightly clouded sky the following morning, bringing with it a thin mist that staunchly refuses to budge. Norway oversleeps, and so only just manages to see Sweden and Finland and their son before they depart. Sweden regards Denmark with his usual stern expression as the other man bends down to high-five Sealand, laughing cheerfully. Sealand then turns to say good bye to Iceland, who looks a little put-out. He never seems to know quite how to handle the young boy, and despite himself, Norway feels warmth fill his heart and stomach as he watches Iceland pat Sealand quickly on the head, then step back, crossing his arms awkwardly.

"We should be leaving now," says Finland, as Sealand waves to Norway, and darts back towards his parents. "Come on, then!" Norway raises his hand in farewell, along with Denmark, and does not lower it until Sweden's car vanishes on the horizon.

"That's that," says Denmark. "What time d'you get in last night, Norge? I didn't hear you come in, did you, Icey?"

"No."

Denmark laughs in his stupid, oblivious way, and they move back towards the house and step inside. The taller man strolls off, whistling cheerily. The moment he has gone, Iceland turns towards his older brother.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yes. I'm fine. Why?"

Iceland doesn't reply, or hold his gaze.

They do not speak to each other again until the late evening, when they find themselves suddenly together, alone in the darkening kitchen.

"Pass me a pen, brother," Norway says, flipping through the book of notes he took at his meeting the previous day. He could work in the study, but Iceland is chopping up food for his puffin, and Norway, shamefully, finds himself powerless to walk away from that slender back; the head of soft, silky hair.

Iceland's back stiffens. He takes a ballpoint from the plastic cup Norway has organized, sitting beside the oven, and walks slowly across the wooden floor towards him.

"I asked you not to call me that," he says, holding the pen close to his stomach.

Their eyes meet. Norway holds the contact. Iceland does not look away, though his throat rises as he swallows, quickly.

"But," says Norway, "you are my brother."

Iceland does not reply.

Norway holds his hand out to receive the pen. It feels, he thinks, like a monumental moment, although he does not know why.

Iceland lowers his hand, not breaking their gaze for even a second. His hand, ungloved for once, brushes lightly against Norway's palm.

Norway feels his body in sharp relief – every inch of himself, every town, every city, every village; every joint, muscle, inch of skin; every field, every hillock, every river, very single hair on his head – he feels it burst into flames at Iceland's touch.

The younger of the two eyes him a moment longer, almost expectantly, as if he wants Norway to say something – then he releases the pen, and his hand falls back to his side.

Norway trembles the moment Iceland turns away.

"I spoke to Russia again today."

"Oh – oh..." Norway shuts his eyes tightly against the glare of his paper. "He...did he..." He fumbles for words, rights himself, somehow, and presses his spine against the immovable wooden back of his chair. "He hasn't been threatening you, has he?"

"No. He's been surprisingly helpful," Iceland says, and raises a knife to begin slicing a smelly, slimy fish. "Though I can't help feeling he's just getting ready to stab me in the back."

"Most people would agree with you," Norway says, and adds drily, "We could always set Fin on him."

There is a soft snort; a puff of air from the counter; Iceland is laughing. Well. Not really laughing; like Norway, Iceland does not laugh. But he is smiling, at least; even chuckling. And Norway's heart and soul warms, all the way through to his core.

He remembers when he found him, and how small he was. The ocean was wild that day, wilder than usual, and as he and his small group of brave men steered their little boat closer and closer to those high, toothy rocks, the waves grew taller, rougher, stronger, and they were caught between two walls of water; one pushing in towards the cool, wet sand, one screeching, rearing, trying its utmost to throw them back from the land. They had managed to guide their vessel in, somehow, and amongst the thick, salty wild grasses above the cliffs, he had found him – Iceland, shivering against the cold, his little fists pink and shaking. He remembers holding him clumsily to his chest, rocking him from side to side, and whispering that it was alright, it was going to be alright, somehow, it would be...it would be alright, though he was still a child himself, really; not quite grown into his man's body – and he feels a terrible, hollow ache, as he recalls how that small, sniffling boy had huddled against him, shutting his beautiful, weary eyes.

It had felt, he thinks, as though a part of himself he'd hardly noticed was missing had at last been restored.

Iceland sits down quite suddenly beside him. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, and Mr Puffin flaps ungainly towards them, coming to perch on the edge of the table. Norway begins to feed him the sliced-up pieces of fish by hand.

"You shouldn't let him sit on the table," Norway says, though his voice is gentle. "We have to eat off it."

Iceland shrugs, and says nothing. Norway watches him a moment longer, then turns back to his notes. He has almost made it to the bottom of the page, when at last Iceland murmurs: "Least I don't keep mine in my hair."

Norway smiles into his hand, eyes flickering up to meet Iceland's, who, to his delight, half-smiles back. The two brothers very rarely show such expression; it is only each other to whom they display such light feelings, and seldom.

The kitchen is warm, and the house is quiet – Denmark has either gone out, though usually he announces this by bellowing back down the hallway as he reaches the front door, or has fallen asleep in front of the television – and it is lovely – just nice to be able to sit close together in peace, and enjoy one another's company.

Mr Puffin gulps his fish down, and pecks Iceland's hand for more. Norway watches the bird, and, as he takes his next piece of food from his master, he looks up, head cocked to the side, eyes staring into Norway's. Norway reaches out to pet him – and just as he feels feathers against his fingertips, Iceland leans over too – and their hands touch atop the bird's sleek head.

They do not move. Iceland freezes beside him – Norway feels it – and though he wants nothing more than to wrap an arm around his little brother and tug him in close, and hold him as he did when they were young, that stiffness running down the other's arm; the tightening of his shoulders stops him in his tracks. Still, Iceland doesn't move; their hands remain, touching above Mr Puffin's head, and suddenly Norway doesn't care anymore.

He curls his fingers slowly, tenderly, around Iceland's, and puts his free arm around those slender, handsome shoulders. Iceland remains perfectly still for a minute – then relaxes, eyelids lowering, and allows himself to tilt sideways, until he is nestled against his big brother's upper body. It cannot be entirely comfortable, for he is still seated upon his own hard chair, but his muscles are no longer tense, and the warm breaths Norway feels Iceland bestowing upon his neck are slow and deep.

"This isn't that whole "call me brother, dear" thing, is it?" Iceland mutters. "Because you can forget it; I'm not going to."

Norway leans his head against Iceland's; breathes in his scent. He smells of shampoo, and a little bit of that oily fish, and of sea salt and cold Icelandic fjords.

"But you are my brother," he says quietly, for the second time that day. The words, as they have done for a long time now, both sting and soothe him, and a tempest begins to boil inside his body.

"Yes," says Iceland, eventually, and Norway knows that this is as close as he will ever get to acknowledgement from the younger. It is nice, in its own way, and very – very them.

"And you know that brothers are always there for each other." Norway finds his thumb has begun to move slowly, so slowly, across the back of Iceland's hand. His skin is so soft; so pale...

"Mmm." Iceland's head moves, just a bit. Norway can feel the lick of his eyelashes against his cheek.

"So...if Russia does start something...you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Mmm."

"I'll be here for you."

This is not normal. His chest hurts so badly, so, so badly...but he has missed this, missed the warm weight of his baby brother in his arms. Iceland does not often allow anyone to get too close to him, even his own sibling; he can hardly recall the last time they sat like this...it could have been years ago...

"Yeah."

"Always," Norway whispers, and Iceland's temple is in just the right place for Norway to press the softest of kisses against it. His heart hammers and his body begins to quake; but Iceland does not react.

They sit there a while, just enjoying the quiet, and the togetherness, and there are no shadows, no trolls lurking along the walls or the skirting boards, and the soft tap tap tap of Mr Puffin waddling around on the tabletop is so soothing and homely, albeit slightly surreal – and outside it is just beginning to do what it has threatened to do all day, and the sound of that gentle rain chiming almost musically against the window pane is welcome and wonderful.

Iceland shifts, sighing in his arms – and presses his gorgeous face further into his big brother's neck.

Norway can feel his lips.

Norway can feel his lips, pressing gently against his pulse point.

"Iceland," he murmurs, and the quiet hum Iceland responds with sends a thrill spiralling wildly down the length of his body; starts a raging inferno within his heart and lungs. "Iceland...you know – I love you, don't you?" He fixes his gaze on the edge of the table, though he longs to look at that beautiful boy pressed up against him.

The chair squeaks a little against the polished floor, and Iceland's clothes rustle just slightly against Norway's. Norway feels the brush of his brother's hair against his jaw. He tucks his fingers more firmly between Iceland's, who squeezes back – just briefly, just for a second.

"Yeah..."

Iceland is looking at him now – he can feel his gaze, heating his cheeks, turning his head – his body moves of its own accord – and their gazes mesh. He drowns in his sibling's calm, violet eyes, so like his own.

The boy leans up towards him, and Norway's head is spinning, spinning...his heart pumps wildly inside his chest, and though his eternally cool exterior does not even begin to melt, he thinks he might possibly be on the verge of passing out.

Shadows flicker along the bottom of the wall at the other end of the room.

Iceland kisses his cheek.

Norway does not move; he cannot.

The younger man's cheeks are pinked, just slightly, the way they were when Norway first tumbled off that storm-battered boat and found him, curled up and afraid and frozen in the long grass, and his fists are balled up; one in Norway's hand, the other against his chest.

Their eyes have not yet parted.

Norway moves, at last, though he cannot say what has prompted him to – he moves slowly, slowly, slowly...giving his brother the chance to say "no," or "stop," or pull back, if that is what he desires – but Iceland just gazes up at him, eyelids heavy, lips parted, breaths slow and deep...

He kisses him on the mouth, just quickly. Their noses touch. They are cold, but their cheeks are warm. Iceland's hand grips his a little harder – just for a moment.

He draws back, slowly, hardly daring to look up into Iceland's face.

Fingers slide up his chest; come to rest upon his collarbone. "Brother," Iceland breathes, and kisses him.

The house is still quiet, save for the rain, and the puffin on the table. Who knows where Denmark is, or when he will be back, if he is out? He could, Norway realizes, with a jolt that is instantly quelled by Iceland's tentative hands and lips, be lurking outside the kitchen at this very second.

He lets go of Iceland's hand, and wraps both of his arms around the younger's back.

Iceland trembles against him; leans even closer.

Norway's head is spinning, his heart is pounding – Iceland's free hand comes up to rest against his cheek, and he turns his head, just slightly, so he can kiss it.

Iceland lets out a quiet little breath, and when their lips meet for the third time, they are parted. Their tongues touch, and the heat that has been simmering away deep inside Norway suddenly boils. He stands up, pulling his brother with him, sliding his hands south so he can grip Iceland by the hips; pull him flush against him.

Softly, Iceland moans.

And that final, thin thread, that last little piece of sanity, of morality, of reason, that last voice in his head insisting but he's your baby brother – gone. All gone, forever.

"Brother," he whispers, "my brother –"

Iceland's hands are pressed against his chest once again, firmer and more insistent than before, and it takes some time for Norway to realize that he is trying to push him away.

Oh God. Oh no. Oh, shit, please, no –

He lets go of him, and without that lovely body to hold onto, he finds that his hands, usually so still, sitting folded and composed upon his lap, are shaking madly.

"Br-brother –"

But Iceland is shaking his head, backing away. He doesn't even look panicked; just still, as still as he always is, though Norway sees those tell-tale signs of worry...his hands are clenched into fists, and his knuckles are white. His cheeks, just a few moments ago so prettily flushed, are now pale and wan, and he is staring so avidly at the floor one might think he was trying to bore a hole into it using the power of vision alone.

Norway hesitates, then slowly, nervously, raises a hand, palm facing up, brightened by the soft lights above them. "Iceland..."

He is shaking his head.

"Ice–"

"We can't," he says, and it is so strained it is almost a sob. "We – we can't...it's – it's wrong. It's disgusting."

Norway falls silent. Of course Iceland is right. Of course it is wrong. Of course it is disgusting. He is disgusting. He has sullied his beloved once again. He sinks back into his chair, resting his elbows on the tabletop, and drops his face into his hands.

The room is silent. For a while, Norway thinks that Iceland has left; that he has fled, sick with fear and anger and revulsion – but then there is the soft sound of feet wrapped in thick socks against wood, and a light hand on his shoulder. He hears a quiet exhalation of breath as his brother sinks to the floor, and that hand moves to rest on his thigh.

His whole body is aflame.

Iceland sighs, and rests his head against his sibling's leg.

How, Norway wonders, not moving his head from where it is cupped and shielded from the world, How in God's name has this happened?

My fault, he thinks in response to his own question. All my fault.

The warm weight of Iceland against his lower body reminds him of when the boy was small; of how – not often, but sometimes – the child would come to him, silently, ask for nothing, but instead hold him. Iceland could never, and too this day does not, ask for comfort from anybody. It is only Norway he goes to, and even then he does not speak, but wordlessly presses up against him.

It has not happened in a long time, though.

"I'm sorry."

It is hard to ascertain who has spoken; they both feel the words in their hearts.

It is so warm; in their chests, in the dimly-lit kitchen, in their loins.

"I'm – hot."

Iceland does not look at him, but remains pressed against his thigh.

Norway shakes. He is hot, too...far too hot.

Iceland stands, makes his way jerkily across the room, and locks the kitchen door. He moves to the big window, and draws the blinds. Norway watches him, but Iceland does not look up from his movements. Mr Puffin, still sitting on the edge of the table, lets out a soft squawk. The younger brother holds out an arm for his bird to hop onto, steps towards the back door, and shoos him into the laundry room. He locks this door too.

"Island...h-hva gjør du?"

"Shh."

Iceland comes to stand before him, pale and wide-eyed and nervous. "English, please," he whispers. "You know how I hate..."

He trails off, and they just look at one another, neither sure of what the next move should be.

Norway, eventually, gets to his feet. Iceland eyes his warily. He steps in close to his brother; reaches a hand out, and begins to slide his burgundy jacket down his perfect, willowy arms.

"No." Iceland jerks backwards, and Norway goes stiff once more. His body is in absolute turmoil. "We can't touch each other. It's wrong, remember?"

The way Iceland speaks, the look on his baby face, not quite fully mature, is utterly reminiscent of that small boy huddled in the tall, cold grass; then against Norway's chest. So young. So beautiful...

Norway sits back down, slowly; eyes alone drawing his boy back with him.

Iceland sits on the floor, one shoulder against the elder's thigh; the only contact he allows them to have. He doesn't even look at his brother.

The heat is unbearable now. Norway is completely hard; hard enough to cut through the smart fabric of his trousers. This thought causes his to bite down hard on his lip; and as his hand first brushes the firmness concealed there, Iceland twitches against him; lets out a soft gasp.

He is so warm; and yet his spine is chilled.

There is a soft rustling from beneath; the sound of a zipper.

Iceland breathes out again, a little more heavily than usual, and Norway slowly opens his own trousers, wondering if the other will say his name...

He doesn't. He doesn't say a thing.

Norway wraps his hand around his length; strokes himself to full hardness. A thick, clear drop of fluid peaks at the head, and creeps slowly down over his fingers. He turns his hand upside-down, and strokes himself carefully with the dampness. When he next curls his fingers around himself, it is even warmer; slicker, and much more comfortable. At his leg, Iceland's shoulder moves steadily up and down...up and down...up and down...

Norway lets his eyes close, tipping his head backwards as he runs the ends of his nails steadily up the underside of his cock. It feels good. He can hear Iceland breathing somewhat harder beneath him; not quite panting, but those deeper, vibrato inhalations swirl down his spine; dance in his stomach, his heart – burn that hardness between his thighs. He pictures it; Iceland, head resting against his hip, eyes half-shut and pants pulled a little way down, exposing that creamy white skin; the curve of a delicious hipbone. His eyebrows draw together as he imagines the softness of the V-shape between Iceland's inner thighs; the weight between them. He imagines small fingers, not as weathered and experienced as his own, but still slightly stubby, tender and clumsy and babyish wrapped around that reddened length...the way that Iceland would tug, a little desperately, on the top half, rubbing round fingertips against the base. A trail of pre-cum would slide down that hard flesh, and his mouth falls open noiselessly as, in his mind's eye, he sees Iceland gasp, and raise a hand to suck on those wet, pale fingers.

His eyes open, his shoulders convulse, and he looks down. Iceland is gazing back up at him, mouth slack, checks flushed with shame and love and lust and sorrow. His hands are working away furiously between his legs. The slow, calm light plays off his silvery hair, and his lips are damp, and his eyes are glowing – positively glowing – and Norway thinks, not for the first time, that his brother is the most stunning thing he's seen in his entire life.

The pulse and thrum of his heart beats throughout his body; spirals south. His cock jerks a little in his hands. His eyes meet Iceland's again; and this time, they lock on one another, and do not look away.

Norway lets out a short, hard groan, just as Iceland turns his head; rests his cheek on the top of his leg, twisting his body round so he can keep that heated eye contact alive. One of his slender legs splays out across the floor, and Norway moans softly as he sees it. His hips jerk forwards, and he slumps back a little, moving his hands faster and faster. Iceland's eyes are wide, now; pleading. He is panting, and every so often he lets out a little choked cry, and nips his lower lip in a useless effort to quiet himself.

Heat is beginning to prickle uncomfortably down Norway's back, and he is almost unable to breath. He groans between his teeth as sparks of hot bliss crackle between his fingers; shooting from his stomach to his cock, from his chest...

"Is-Iceland –" He catches himself before he whispers his brother's name in his native tongue. Iceland whimpers below, and spreads his legs further, twisting all the way round so he is knelt before him, facing him. His head tips backwards and his shoulders rise up. His eyebrows are peaked, begging, and his lips twitch with the ghost of Norway's name. Little broken, gaspy sighs and pleas escape from between his pinked lips, and by the time his head drops down, and his back begins to shake, and his legs slide further apart, Norway's hands are soaked.

Iceland finishes before him, childishly, with a half-silent mewl, his eyes screwing up into dark wrinkles as the tips of his fingers dip into that wet, wet slit. He posts forward, catching himself on flat, sticky hands, legs weak, muscles twitching.

Norway jolts, hips bucking up, up. One hand flies to the edge of the table, grips it weakly as spasms of pleasure run down his arms, to the blue veins stood out along his neck, into those peaked nipples beneath his shirt, to his legs, his toes, his cock...he moves his hand faster now, faster, gripping as tightly as he possibly can. His hand is clawed, and a little painful. He brushes his nails from base to swollen tip once more, biting back the moan that teeters between his teeth. Iceland gazes up at him, still flushed and perfect and his, his darling brother...he can still feel it, the solid love pressing, melting into his body as they had held one another and kissed earlier...Iceland's mouth against his, gentle and loving and passionate and –

He stares at Iceland, and thinks of Iceland, his mouth, open, and his tongue, and his perfect face, and his hands and hips and back and thighs, and he comes, into his own palm, his pelvis sinking backwards as he gasps, and moans, and sighs in relief.

The chair is hard against his weak form, but it doesn't matter, it absolutely doesn't matter; he is fulfilled, exhausted; he cannot recall coming so hard, so quickly before in his life. His chest rises and falls, and the air is pleasantly cool against his splashed hands, his softening length. His eyes close as he listens to the slow, heavy breathing of his younger brother at his side, taking great comfort in that quiet, handsome constant.

His head is spinning.

Eventually, he manages to summon up the strength to sit up, tuck himself away and re-button his trousers. His hair has, he notices, slipped from behind his barrette, and he pushes it away, re-clipping it behind his ear. It is damp with sweat.

Iceland is still hunched on the floor below him. He has not yet moved to fasten up his pants.

"Br-brother?"

Iceland is trembling. He is trembling.

He is crying.

"Brother – dear?"

A hand, smeared white and thick and wet moves up to cover the younger Nordic's eyes. And Iceland sobs.

Norway drops to his knees.

"Brother – brother, dear Iceland, Iceland," he whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say.

The light outside the window has faded now, and there is no moon, no stars. The sky is smoky with clouds, burnt at the edges, and only the pale orange glow from the ceiling light remains. Norway wraps his arms around him – around Iceland, his brother, his dearest, dearest, most precious brother – and rocks him, rocks him side-to-side, whispering to him that it's alright, it's going to be alright, somehow, it will be...it will be alright...

And Iceland holds him back, his head pressed into the crook of his brother's neck once again, and those soft lips are against his pulse point, and Norway cannot hold back the thin streak of salty tears that slowly cuts a jagged route down his cheek.

The End


End file.
